


The Open Air

by ToSerWithLove



Series: Closed / Open [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Look It's Actual Smut Again, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 08:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20927009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToSerWithLove/pseuds/ToSerWithLove
Summary: “Jaime,” she sighed, her tone part warning and part yearning. “We’re out in the open.”He pulled away from her to glance pointedly around. “I think this might be the most privacy we’ve had in months. There’s no one around to hear you for miles.” He leaned back in to nip at her earlobe, his teeth and tongue teasing the soft flesh. “You can be as loud as you want to be out here.”She gave a laugh that was lower and breathier than usual. “I’m not the one who has trouble keeping quiet.”“Very well,” he growled. “You can be as loud as I want you to be out here.”





	The Open Air

**Author's Note:**

> Since Elloise was so kind as to give us both versions of her gorgeous art (https://knifeears.tumblr.com/post/187443829549), I couldn't resist writing a little companion piece to the fic she requested/inspired.

The only sound was the crunch of snow beneath their horses’ hooves. Jaime lifted his face to the sky. A few late snowflakes fell silently around them, melting on his nose and brow, but the sun shone dimly through the clouds like a whisper of spring to come. He pulled his horse to a stop and swung out of the saddle. 

“_Whoa_,” Brienne called softly behind him, and he heard her horse stamp impatiently as it came to a halt. 

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He took the reigns and led the horse along. “I’m enjoying the fresh air. You should try it.” 

“We’re supposed to be looking for anything that can serve as fuel for the fires.” 

“I can do that on my own two feet as well as on a horse.”

“Yes, but not as quickly.”

“That’s the entire point, wench. I’m in no rush to get back to Winterfell.” His back was to her, but he knew she was rolling her eyes even as the creak of leather told him she was dismounting.

“It is nice to be away from the smell,” she admitted grudgingly as she caught up to him with her long strides. The stench of smoke and the burning flesh of the dead seeped into fur and hair and at times seemed to permeate Winterfell’s stones themselves. The crisp, clear air was a welcome change. She huffed and shivered. “It’s still freezing though, so try not to loiter in your beloved fresh air for so long that we both get frostbite and lose the few remaining fingers we have between us.”

“We survived an entire army of dead and months of darkness. I think we’ll manage. It may not be spring, but the worst is over.” 

She fell silent and hooked her arm through his, her hand resting at his empty wrist.

He glanced down to the place where her last two fingers ended at the second joint. The cold had claimed them first, and the Tarley boy’s blade had finished the job. He may not have been a full maester, but to his credit, he had done the job neatly. Jaime had held a thick, leather strap for her to bite down on as Samwell had cut away what couldn’t be saved. When she could no longer hold back her screams, he had dropped the strap and clutched her to his chest. That night in bed he had held her tightly, her muffled cries ringing in his head with memories of his own screams. “I know,” he had murmured into her sweat-soaked hair as she shook in his arms. “I know.” A few days later he had watched as she clenched her jaw and silently hemmed the fingers of her left glove down to meet her own. 

Jaime stopped and dropped his reigns, turning to cup her face in his hand. “The worst _is_ over, Brienne. Spring is coming, no matter what the Starks say, and we are alive to see it.” 

“We are alive to see it,” she echoed. She blinked, and tears swam suddenly in her eyes. “Toward the end, I didn’t think—I couldn’t hope anymore. I thought that if I could die with a blade in my hand and you by my side that would be enough. I prayed—”

He stopped her with a kiss. He did not want to hear what dreadful, desperate prayers she had offered the Stranger on their behalf. Prayers that she would die first, no doubt. It was the one way in which she was selfish. 

Her reigns forgotten, she threw her arms fiercely around his shoulders, and he moved his mouth to the rough terrain of her cheek and then the smooth, thick column of her neck. “We’re alive,” she repeated, as though it were a startling fact of which she had only just now become aware. “We’re alive.” 

He slipped his arms beneath her cloak and pulled her tight against him. She clutched his face and met his lips. He groaned in her mouth as her soft, demanding tongue traced his. He longed to press her against a tree, but what trees there had been in the area had burned in Winterfell’s hearths and pyres long ago. He moved his hand from her back, trailing across the flat plane of her stomach and down the front of her breeches. The junction of her thighs was warm through the roughspun fabric as he pressed his hand to her then stroked her firmly with a single finger.

“_Jaime_,” she sighed, her tone part warning and part yearning. “We’re out in the open.”

He pulled away from her to glance pointedly around. “I think this might be the most privacy we’ve had in months. There’s no one around to hear you for miles.” He leaned back in to nip at her earlobe, his teeth and tongue teasing the soft flesh. “You can be as loud as you want to be out here.”

She gave a laugh that was lower and breathier than usual. “I’m not the one who has trouble keeping quiet.”

“Very well,” he growled. “You can be as loud as _I _want you to be out here.” He yanked on the laces of her breeches, opening them enough to slip his hand inside her smallclothes. Her breath quickened and her hips bucked against his fingers. She grasped the fur at his collar. “Jaime,” she groaned. There was no mistaking her tone this time. They tumbled to the barren ground.

She arranged herself so that her cloak was beneath her then leaned back, propped on her elbows. He sat between her legs and stared at her. He had seen her in many positions since they had first coupled: arcing on the bed as he stoked her desire with his tongue, looming above him as she rode him, rolling like thunder beneath him. But he wanted to be sure he remembered her this way as well: the fur around her shoulders framing her freckled face, her cheeks and nose pink from the cold, her breeches open, her eyes bright and needful.

She leaned up and took his face gently in her hands. “Quickly, before the snow soaks through my cloak, if you don’t mind,” she said, and pulled him on top of her. He bit at his glove and pulled it off awkwardly with his teeth so he could slide his bare hand up beneath her tunic. He was grateful they had been able to forego armor. She hissed at his cold touch, but rose to meet his hand anyway. He ran his fingers over her ribs. There was a time when he barely noticed them beneath her flesh, but they were all leaner these days. He cupped the small, familiar swell of her breast and ran his thumb over her nipple, which hardened beneath his touch. A snowflake caught in her pale eyelashes as her heavy breath turned to fog in the air. She caressed his face and hair, and he bent to kiss her again.

It was too cold to truly do things properly, but she tugged off one glove and made quick work of his laces. No sooner had he inhaled sharply at the shock of cold air than she had him in hand. Her hand was large and strong and calloused and warm, and for a moment he thrust eagerly along with the rhythm she set before stilling her fingers with his own. He tugged at her breeches, and she helped him ease them down over her hips, just low enough for what they needed. She unbuckled her cloak so she could spread it out and shifted over so that he could join her. He nudged her onto her side with her back to him and threw his cloak over her as well. He slid his hand between her legs where she was hot and slick, then higher. She rocked back against him, hitching her knees up to give him a better angle.

He buried himself in her then wrapped his arm over her leg, finding again that small, firm center of her pleasure. They settled into a rhythm together, and he dropped his head into the hollow between her shoulders. She whimpered. “Yes, sweetling,” he mumbled against her shirt. “Let me hear you.”

“You’re incorri—” she began, but the word became an inarticulate cry as he sped up the pace of his hand. She gasped and moaned so loudly that he did not have to guess when she was close.

“Yes, Brienne, yes. Roar for me,” he whispered as she neared her peak. And she did.

He quickly pulled away from her and rolled over to finish in the snow beside him. She shifted behind him and reached around to give him a final, gentle stroke, sending a shudder through him. Her lips pressed firmly to his neck as she tucked his spent cock back into his smallclothes before standing and hastily redressing. _One day I might not have to pull away_, he thought as he followed her lead. The thought carried the weight of so many other possibilities he had not yet dared to dream of: marriage, the South, children, summer.

She shook out her cloak and returned it to her shoulders. They had work to do and miles still to cover, but as she reached her horse, she turned and grinned shyly at him. Her smile was as tender and guileless as it had been when she was still a maid. _Yes, one day, _he thought. _When the snow melts, and the sun truly comes out again. One day._


End file.
